He picked her up outside her last period Ceramics class. You were dying and your baby along with you. Now then," he added more calmly, "I am ready to die. The spirit I drink may be poison,—it may kill me,—perhaps it is killing me:—but so would hunger, cold, misery,—so would my own thoughts. He grabbed her hair viciously and whispered loudly into her tear-streaked face.
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